Page 23 of Secret Love

I pause in the living room, sensing a bit more light than usual. The window blinds are open. I usually like to leave them closed. The maid must have opened them. Or Smith did. I quickly close the blinds and continue on through my bedroom toward my en suite.

I tilt the faucet and let the hot water fill the tub. Steam rises into the air in perfect, gentle wisps. I unbutton my blouse and let it fall to the floor as I reach behind me to unclasp my bra. It falls halfway down my arms before I realize the window blinds are open in here as well. I lay an arm across my exposed chest to pin the bra in place. I didn’t open these either.

Everything has been a crazy blur since the moment I watched Senator Lamb get shot. I remember the hospital. My father barking orders at the nurses. Today’s consult with the plastic surgeon. It’s the little details that are gone. Post-traumatic stress, they told me. It’ll pass, they told me. Smile for the camera, they told me.

I close the blinds, lock the bathroom door, and slide my blouse off my shoulders.

The water is hot — too hot — but it’s how I like it. If I’m not seeing red as I lie back in the tub, then it’s not hot enough. My toes curl and sweat breaks instantly on my brow. I lay my head along the folded-up towel on the porcelain edge. With my eyes closed, I let my mind wander to places it never goes during my busy days. Places of peace and quiet and—

Fox.

I open my eyes and lick my lips.

No. Not Fox. Think of something else. Anything else.

It’s been there since the moment I saw him today. That irresistible thirst. I haven’t felt it since the day he left home and it was immediately replaced by seething hatred. He took my virginity — on my birthday — and then ran off without even saying goodbye. Who does that? What reason could he possibly have? Did he hate it? He seemed to like it. Maybe I just wasn’t good at it and he was too much of a coward to let me down gently.

I slap the water with my palm, annoyed that this topic has once again dominated my thoughts. It was five years ago. I’m a completely different person now and — by the looks of it — so is he. He’s not the same Fox I met when he was fifteen and my father started dating his mother. Back then, he was that guy. The popular kid in the halls with his backpack hanging from one shoulder and a hot cheerleader on the other. That devil may care attitude everyone loved, teachers included. It’s what let him get away with so much with little effort on his part.

We had nothing in common. I was an average kid on the opposite end of the spectrum. Quiet and shy. I didn’t like crowds or cameras or being the center of attention but that didn’t stop my father from pushing me into theater classes and auditions.

Fox and I didn’t get along, at first. We were just too different. It was awkward enough going to the same school. When he and his mother moved in, it got worse. Fighting, bickering. Little did we know that our feelings for each other sat just beneath the surface, forbidden urges neither one of us dared to say out loud until that day…

No, he’s not the same boy. He’s changed. Now, he’s the one hiding in the shadows.

Honestly, he probably should have just stayed there.

I inhale a deep breath before submerging my head. The doctor told me to keep the bandage on my cheek dry, but I don’t really care about that right now. I just want to get his rugged, bearded face out of my head.

A dull slam echoes from the hallway.

I shoot up in the tub, my eyes darting toward the locked door. Water pours over the tub’s sides, sprinkling down to the linoleum floor. I refuse to move or even breathe. Was it real? Or was it all in my head?

“Smith?” I ask.

I sit up a little more, focusing my ears on the hallway. Any second now, I’ll hear his loafers tap down the hall. He’ll knock twice and I’ll hear his authoritarian voice ask, “Is everything okay in there?”

Silence.

I raise my voice a little louder. “Smith?”

Nothing. No answer. No shoes. No annoyed sigh.

I wrap my fingers around the tub’s edge and push myself up.

Glass shatters, echoing from the kitchen. I freeze, suspended between standing and kneeling, as something falls to the floor in the living room. Something stiff and loud.

Like a body.

“Smith?!” I shout again.

I step out of the tub and grab my robe to cover up before rushing over to the closet. I reach behind the door, wrapping my fingers around the handle of a baseball bat — the one a young, single girl living alone keeps stashed away for times just like this. I hold the bat tight and move to the door. There’s still no sound coming from the hallway. I grit my teeth in nervous anger. Smith isn’t the type to mess around. If he is playing a prank, it’s entirely unwelcome. However, I’d much rather this be a prank than anything else.

The floorboards creak in the hall.

I grip the bat a little tighter. It doesn’t sound like Smith’s black loafers. These are boots, hard and loud. They tap down the hall, inching closer toward the bathroom door. My entire body shakes. Water drips down my legs. Muscles twitch and ache.

The doorknob turns twice.

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